With the Strength of Lions - Part Three (Sparta Verse)
Part Three
Turning his mind away from this thought, he moved around Dean and Dad and got the plates and the forks and the glasses and arranged them on the table. He got the salt and pepper shakers out too, thinking that might help with the taste.
Dad was doing something at the counter with Dean standing nearby, but their backs were too broad and too close together for Sam to see what they were doing, so he poured the milk, and then put the jug away. Then he sat in his chair and propped himself on his leg and waited while he listened to the sounds of the camp spaghetti being heated in the frying pan. Maybe he even smelled butter; his stomach certainly did, and stood up and growled.
Sam took a sip of milk and tried to be calm; he was too tired to kick up a fuss about it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so horrible, after all, it’d been years since he’d eaten a stewed tomato. Maybe they were like olives and got better with time.
He also smelled garlic, which was strange, since camp spaghetti didn’t really have garlic that you could smell or taste, though it was listed as one of the ingredients on the label. Sam had checked. Though why he was thinking about this now was beyond him; his head felt dizzy, so he rested his cheek on his propped up hand and listened to Dean use the toaster, which was also strange.
Finally, Dean brought over the pile of buttered toast, and Dad brought over the bowl of camp spaghetti. Only instead of being long strings of spaghetti with huge chunks of stewed tomatoes in it, everything was cut up into little pieces, and Dad had even chopped up garlic and fried it in butter and tossed that in. Yes, there were still stewed tomatoes everywhere, but they were little little, only pieces of red at that point.
Sam looked up at Dad, he knew his confusion was showing in his face.
“Eat,” said Dad. “Just shut up and eat, okay?”
Sam nodded. His throat felt a little thick, and he didn’t quite know what to say. He was going to have to eat the stewed tomatoes, but still, even though he was giving in, so was Dad.
Dean snorted and took two pieces of toast and began to make a sandwich out of the spaghetti. Now the toast made sense to Sam and he did what Dean was doing, trying not to grimace as he saw how many little pieces of red were on his slice of bread. Instead, he covered up the pile of chopped spaghetti with another slice of bread and squished it down. Dean reached over and cut the sandwich in two for him, and then cut his own. Dad just picked up his whole sandwich and bit into it with white teeth.
Sam picked up one half of his sandwich and bit into it like Dean was doing. He chewed, tasting the spaghetti, and the garlic, but hardly any of the tomatoes. There was only a faraway tang of it, and he was able to chew and swallow like it was anything else.
He found that Dad and Dean were looking at him expectantly.
“It’s the texture,” he said, around another mouthful.
Dean snorted around his sandwich as he took another bite, while Dad only frowned and looked away from Sam, at something else, the wall maybe. Still the sandwich was very good, as was the cold glass of milk that Sam finished off in record time. He wished there was enough spaghetti for two sandwiches, but between what he’d spilled and Dad spilled, there was only enough for one each.
Dad pushed his plate back and looked at the empty bowl, like he was still hungry too. Then he looked at Sam and Dean.
“You boys go to bed, I’ll get the dishes.”
“But it’s only just after nine,” said Sam before he could think.
Dad took at little breath, and flicked his dark eyes at Sam. His expression was level and calm, but it looked forced. “I said go to bed, Sam.”
He felt Dean tugging on his sleeve, so Sam got up and left the dishes on the table, and walked away, which felt weird, because Dad never did it like this. But Dean kept walking and so Sam followed him into the bathroom where they washed their faces.
Dean looked down at Sam. “You need some more cream for those legs? I think there’s some in the cupboard here.”
He was reaching for the medicine cabinet, and taking out the tube, but Sam shook his head, and took the tube from Dean. His legs felt stuff and his backside hurt, but then it was supposed to. Besides, he didn’t want Dean putting cream on his bare behind, that would just be too weird. Most of him still felt numb and tired anyway.
“I can do it myself, I’m fine.”
Dean frowned at him and brushed his teeth, and didn’t say anything more to Sam.
When Dean left, Sam shut the bathroom door and took down his shorts and underwear to put the cream on as best he could. But he couldn’t see all of the back of him and probably got as much on unwelted skin as on the skin that really needed it. When he pulled up his clothes, he felt the cream smearing around, so maybe he should have let Dean help him. Anyway, it was too late now because now he smelled like the first aid cream, all medicine-y, and Dean was sure to say something nasty about that.
Then Sam brushed his teeth and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked like two blank spots; he looked like a boy he didn’t even know and he didn’t feel right, and there was still that tightness in his chest and stomach, and maybe he’d eaten too much spaghetti, too fast, he didn’t know. But he felt like someone had punched him, right in the stomach, even though no one had. He finished up as fast as he could and didn’t look at himself in the mirror any more.
By the time Sam was out of the bathroom, Dean was already in bed with both fans going, and the door propped open. Sam stepped over the fan and flicked off the overhead light and took off his shorts and shirt crawled into bed next to Dean, wincing each time he moved his legs. But the worst part was the tight feeling that had moved up to his throat. He tried swallowing but it didn’t go away.
As he lay on his side, in the darkness, below the sound of the fans, Sam could hear Dean settling in, his breathing slow.
“Hey Dean?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“Are you awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have some honey? On a spoon, like you did that one time?”
Beside him in the bed, he felt Dean freeze. Then he drew his breath in fast, and said with a hiss, “You think you deserve honey after what you did today? And you still haven’t said sorry to Dad, you little shit, so no, you can’t have any honey.”
Sam flinched like he’d been slapped hard in the face.
Dean rolled over with his back to Sam, huffing as he settled the sheet under his arm. Sam could poke him to make him roll back over, but he didn’t dare.
“I did try,” he said to Dean’s back. “You saw. Dad waved me away, said he’d had enough of me.”
“What he said was,” said Dean, and it sounded like he was talking through grit teeth, “was that he’d had enough. Of the day. Of you and me almost getting killed in the river. Of us almost drowning.”
“But Dean,” Sam said in a voice that felt very small, “we didn’t really almost drown, did we?” A pounding had started up in his chest, all of a sudden, and his lungs were aching in a way that made him feel like he was in the river all over again with the water coming into his mouth and the foam all around and he couldn’t get away.
Suddenly Dean sat up and loomed over Sam, his eyes bright flickers in the near darkness.
“You’re like one of those idiot smart kids or something, Sam,” said Dean, biting off each word, teeth snapping. “You know all about Indians, you can hit a bulls eye with a cross bow easier than most people can snap their fingers, you can find your way out of any forest with your eyes closed, but you’re still so stupid you just don’t get it, do you.”
Sam shook his head, his mouth open for air, trying not to make any noise that Dean might remark on and make fun of. He pulled the sheet close up under his chin and couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t move.
“When you were going in,” said Dean, snarling, “and I tried to stop you, that river was rising. I don’t know, maybe it had rained up the valley or something, but that water was fast, and you went in even though Dad said not to-”
“I just wanted to go wading,” said Sam, choking on his own breath, because he couldn’t understand why Dean was still so mad. “Like when we went fishing, I just wanted another good day, like that.”
“What you wanted,” said Dean, “is what you always want, which is to throw Dad’s orders right back in his face, just because you want to, because you don’t think you have to obey orders or something, I don’t know-”
Dean stopped and rubbed his forehead hard with the palm of his hand, pushing up his hair into weird spikes. Then he started talking really fast. “You fight him on everything, and maybe that’s just the way you are, but you fight him even when he’s trying to keep us safe, even when he says to not go in the river above the falls, because the water is just too fast there-and today, when it was rising, you couldn’t even see it, or you didn’t want to, because all you could think about was getting back at Dad.”
Dean stopped again, and this time he was panting hard. He’d not raised his voice at all, but he’d said more in one breath than Sam could ever remember him saying. And it was hard things, stuff Sam didn’t really want to hear, like the time Dad had convinced him to keep training, because if he didn’t, then maybe he wouldn’t be ready to rescue Dean from a tight spot. And maybe today, he’d only not rescued Dean, he’d dragged him into danger, made him come into the river, when it had been rising-and all of a sudden, Sam couldn’t breathe at all.
Even though it made the back of his legs sting as if his skin was ripping open, he sat up with his hands on his chest, the sheet falling away, his mouth open, looking at Dean, finally getting it.
“I almost got us killed,” he said, feeling like he was choking. He could hear the river rising in his ears.
But Dean just shoved Sam in the chest till he fell back on the bed, right on his welts, his head landing with a thwump on the pillow.
“Don’t start your drama with me, princess. I was there, and you were just being an airheaded girl when you went in, la la, follow me Dean. You knew exactly what you were doing and not once,” here Dean paused to poke Sam in the stomach with his sharp finger, “not once did you listen to me, just like you never listen to Dad, and you’re such a little bitch that you don’t realize that it’s eating him up that you almost died today. That I almost died today, but he rescued you first, and you don’t even remember.”
Dean slammed back down on the mattress again so hard it was a lucky thing that Dad didn’t hear him and come in and yell at them both for messing around when they should be sleeping. His back was to Sam again, and now Sam’s stomach hurt even more and not just because Dean poked it.
But he did remember. He remembered Dad walking right past Dean to get to Sam first, leaving Dean in the river as he rescued Sam. Maybe that had been because Sam had been further out in the river, in more danger, because he was the youngest, he didn’t know. His breath started tripping up and down his throat like it was trying to find the way out but couldn’t. And his stomach was tangled in achy knots, like ropes that were alive, and it was suddenly very hard to lay still.
“Dean,” he whispered in the dark, “I’m sorry, honest, I didn’t know-“
But Dean punched his pillow, interrupting Sam. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to punch you in your fucking freak face, you got me? I mean it.”
Dean did mean it, Sam could tell because Dean didn’t usually cuss at him like that, didn’t make threats he didn’t plan on following up on, and Dean was right, Sam had almost gotten them killed today, and at dinner, he’d made the fuss about the tomatoes like the incident at the river never even happened, and now the expression, the flat, emotionless expression on Dad’s face made sense. Or at least a little more than it usually did.
And just as he was making up his mind whether to go out and apologize to Dad, the door opened away from the fan, and although Dad didn’t turn on the light, he was a presence in the doorway.
“What’s going on in here? Dean?”
With a small yelp, Sam slid off the bed, and scuttled to curl against the wall under the headboard. This was stupid, it wasn’t like they couldn’t find him, but just for a second, he needed it dark. And even if it was a little dusty under the bed, it was dark, and the floorboards were cool. More importantly, Dean wasn’t on the bed bedside him, hating him and making threats about punching him in the face. And anyway, he was shaking all over, his teeth clacked together, and the backs of his bent legs hurt like they were on fire. He put his hands over his ears, but all he could hear was the roar of the river and Dean screaming Sam! Sam! Sam!
Dad clicked the light on, and Sam could see Dad’s bare feet between the legs of the bed and the end of the sheet that trailed off on Sam’s side.
Above him the bed squeaked.
“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asked.
“He went under the bed,” said Dad.
Sam heard Dean roll back over with a heavy sigh. “He’s just being a stupid princess, all this drama, and he can’t even-”
“That’s enough Dean. Sam, come on out of there.”
Sam stuck out his chin and shook his head, even though he knew that Dad couldn’t see him.
Dad walked around to Sam’s side of the bed and knelt down so he could see Sam. His eyes were dark, and his face was very still. Sam looked back at him, his mouth open, trying to get enough air.
“Sam, what are you doing?”
Sam shook his head again, and in his ears the river still roared, and Dean was screaming Sam! Sam! Sam!
“Is this about today?” asked Dad. “Is this about the river?”
Sam took a hard, deep breath, dropping his hands to hold himself steady, and the words came tumbling out. “I almost got us killed today, all of us, one at a time. Going in the river, I just wanted to go in the river, and go wading again, but I got stuck and Dean came in and then he got stuck and then you came in and then you slipped, and you rescued me first, and we almost died and now Dean hates me, and I c-can’t breathe, and-”
Sam curved forward into a little ball, burying his head in his arms, and tried to keep breathing, even though he felt like he was going to run out of oxygen with every other breath. Maybe Dean was right and he was a drama princess, but it was all suddenly just too much. If Dean had gotten him some honey, then he would have known that somebody liked him, at least a little bit, only now, nobody liked him and he was under the bed, feeling like he was trapped in a corner with no way out, and he never wanted Dad to look at him that way again, ever, ever-
Something was moving, and Sam lifted his head. It was Dad and he was reaching for Sam. His hand was only inches away and Sam scooted back.
“You need to come out of there, Sam; don’t make me have to shove this bed out of the way.”
It was only going to end badly if Sam kept it up, and Dad didn’t understand, like he never did. He probably thought Sam was just making a fuss because he could, and he certainly wouldn’t want to hear how hard it was for Sam to not start crying right this minute.
“Sam.”
“No whipping,” Sam said, clearing his throat to get it out. Dad was going to be able to grab him in a second, and he would, if he really wanted to.
“No,” said Dad, like he agreed. “At least not today.”
Sam stuck out his chin and didn’t move. “I almost killed Dean today, and everyone h-hates me.”
“No one died today, and Dean doesn’t hate you, Sam, and I don’t hate you.” Dad stretched out his hand a little more. “But maybe you don’t like yourself right now, maybe that’s what’s got you all worked up.”
"I can’t breathe, Dad.”
“That’s enough, Sam,” said Dad. “C’mon.”
Sam shifted his body, just a little, but it was enough so that Dad could grab him and drag him hard across the wood and out from under the bed. He pulled Sam to his feet, and held on to his shoulders while Sam blinked in the brightness of the light.
“Take a deep breath for me, okay?” said Dad.
Sam tried.
“Okay?” asked Dad.
“My chest feels all tight, and my stomach is all running around and-”
“You’re worked up from today, and I didn’t think-” Dad started and then he stopped, a big sigh working its way up from his chest, making Sam feel bad.
Everyone was tired and he, Sam, was just making it worse, and all because he wanted some stupid honey on a stupid spoon. He wasn’t going to ask for it, ever again, no, he was just going to breathe in and out, slowly, so Dad would know he was okay, and would turn out the light, so everyone could get some sleep. And in the morning, after chores, they had running, and Sam would be the first one up, and he would be ready, he would go running, he would-
“Sam,” Dad shook him. “Sam, take a breath, take your hands from your face and look at me.”
Sam let his hands drop, he didn’t even realize what he’d been doing. Dad was standing close, with a hand on Sam’s shoulders, heavy and warm.
He felt very small as he looked up at Dad, and then, without thinking, Sam leaned a little sideways so he could bury his face in the crook of Dad’s arm, and just not think of anything, for just a minute.
But Dad pushed him away, though Dad’s bandaged head came up and cupped the back of his head, just like he’d done in the river, patting him once or twice. Sam wasn’t going to cry, but he gave a shuddery little breath, just the same as he tried to quell his beating heart and ignore the memory of Dean shouting his name.
“He’s-” started Dean.
“Not now, Dean,” said Dad.
Dad took his hands away from Sam’s head and made Sam look up at him. His eyes were stern and the expression Sam saw there made his stomach start squirreling around.
“When I say not to do something because it’s dangerous, I’m not just saying it to hear myself talk. You understand?”
Sam nodded. His eyes were hot and his chest was still tight, but it was getting better, because Dad was looking at him like he was a dumb kid, and not like someone who’d tried to kill them all-
Dad snapped his fingers at Sam. “That’s enough Sam. What’s done is done, and I want you to go to bed and let Dean sleep. In the morning, we’ll go get you new sneakers, and I need new boots.”
“Dean too,” said Sam. Even if Dean was still pissed at him, he should get new sneakers if Sam was.
“Fine. Now everyone go to bed. If I hear another word-”
“You won’t,” said Dean.
“I’ve heard that before,” said Dad. Then he flicked off the light and put the door back against the fan.
Dad was not happy with Sam and probably not with Dean either, but mostly not with Sam, but then, he always wasn’t. Sam stood there for a minute, in the darkness, while his eyes adjusted. He felt stiff all over, and the pull of exhaustion was so hard, the thought he might fall asleep standing up.
Even so, his mind still wanted to go on, to run through the memory of the day, of the water, and the foam, and Dad striding through the water like it was air, pulling Sam off the rock and into his arms, saving him. And leaving Dean there to die.
Sam shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it any more.
“Get into bed, idiot,” said Dean, “or sleep under it, I really don’t care.”
“I’m tired, Dean,” said Sam as he crawled into bed, and collapsed on his front, with his face turned towards Dean.
He felt the cotton sheet being laid over him, falling lightly, like dandelion seeds.
“Don’t be such a girl,” said Dean, but his voice was soft like he wanted Sam to really listen to him. “Try rescuing two stupid kids from a fast, deep river, and then you’ll know tired.”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Sam, also keeping his voice low. “I tried to say I’m sorry to Dad; you saw me.”
Dean sighed, and there was a rustle of sheets as he pulled them up to his neck. “I know. Try again tomorrow or something. He’ll listen, I know he will. When he’s not so freaked out.”
“Can I have some honey?”
“No.”
But Dean’s no didn’t hurt as much as it had before, besides which, Dean wasn’t threatening to punch him now. And had made only a little snotty comment about Sam hiding under the bed to get away from Dad.
Sam sighed, his brain filling up with the memory of being rescued first, waiting on the bank for Dad to go after Dean. Those had been long seconds, while he waited, and the memory of the foam and the sharp rock and the water all around made his heart beat faster, made him feel like he was dying all over again. So he scooted closer to Dean, and paused, then scooted a little closer, till he could bend his neck and rest his forehead on Dean’s back.
He did this and waited for Dean to protest, and then, when Dean didn’t (though he was surely still awake), Sam moved even closer till he could tuck his hands beneath Dean’s ribs and rest his head on them. This close to Dean’s warmth, and familiar, comforting smell, Sam breathed in and tried to forget about the river. But he was shaking and he couldn’t stop.
Dean rolled over so fast Sam almost didn’t have time to get out of the way. And then Dean was there, clasping his face.
“Please, please, please, Sammy,” he whispered, close. “Please stop crying. Dad’ll come in again, if he hears you.”
“I’m not c-crying,” said Sam. Now he knew that Dean could really feel him shaking and he would be mad that Sam couldn’t stop. “I’m not.”
Dean moved his finger beneath Sam’s right eye, as if to check whether Sam was lying, and Sam could almost hear his brother frowning.
“Then what’s the matter? Why’re you shaking?”
Sam ducked his head, and pushed it into the pillow so that Dean’s hand would be trapped beneath Sam’s cheek and he wouldn’t be able to pull it away. With Dean this close, he felt better, safer. And Dean was being nice to him; even if it only lasted a minute or two, it was as good as a spoonful of honey. Maybe even better.
“I saw-well, Dad rescued me first, and left you out there. What if the river had come up and taken you away?”
“Dad wouldn’t let it,” said Dean. “You know that.”
“But what if it did? What if it took you away and I never saw you again?” Sam was shaking harder now, and Dean’s hand slipped away, like he was afraid it would. But instead of pulling away, Dean clasped both of Sam’s hands in his. His hands were warm and solid, and Dean leaned in very close.
“It never will,” said Dean. “It didn’t today, and it won’t ever. I’m right here. I’ll always be around, Sammy, always. I promise. Okay?”
That would make it better because Dean always kept his promises. Sam tried to stop shaking, taking several deep breaths. He looked up at Dean, and nodded. “I’ll try,” he said.
“Nope,” said Dean. “Not good enough. You have to believe me. All or nothing, you got that?”
Dean sounded so serious and fierce that Sam had to nod. He trusted Dean when he talked like that. And Dean wasn’t dead, after all. He was right here, right next to Sam.
“But I can’t stop thinking about it, about you-what if you-”
Dean let go of his hands, and pulled away. Sam could hear the sheets rustle under his hands. “If you don’t stop, you know what I’m gonna do, Sammy?” asked Dean.
“What?” asked Sam, startled by the suddenness of Dean’s question.
“I’m going to fart really hard and then pull these sheets really fast right over your head. Do you want that?”
Sam was so distracted from his memory of the river by this thought that he yelped and yanked away from Dean. “No!”
“Shhhh!” said Dean, fierce again, but underneath that, not. “You really want to get us in trouble?”
Sam shook his head and watched to see if Dean was really going to do it. But then Dean just snorted, and lay back down, and patted the mattress right next to him, to get Sam to do the same. The message was clear. Sam could lay down right next to Dean, where he wanted to be, and try and sleep and trust that Dean wouldn’t fart on him, or he could keep messing around and Dean surely would. The choice was entirely Sam’s.
“Okay,” said Sam. “I really am sorry.”
“And I think I had lots of garlic at supper, so shut up, before I do it.”
There was kindness in Dean’s voice, which made Sam feel better and a little less vacant and numb. Made him feel like he was in more familiar territory and less alone. He concentrated on moving his pillow closer to Dean’s, and on not shaking. Dean’s farts were powerful weapons, so he didn’t use them very often, thank goodness. So he would try, for Dean.
When Sam’s head hit the pillow, Dean pulled the sheet up over Sam, but gently like he had before.
“Sleep now, Sammy,” said Dean, low. “It’ll be better in the morning, I promise.”
Sam nodded, and turned on his side to face Dean, pushing in close, tucking his hands under the pillow beneath his head. And thought about new sneakers, and long fields of green grass and white lines, and spoonfuls of honey. And Dean. Who wasn’t dead, and who was maybe even being a little bit nice to him.
The End
Master Fic Post
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://lovesrain44.dreamwidth.org/4294.html.
Turning his mind away from this thought, he moved around Dean and Dad and got the plates and the forks and the glasses and arranged them on the table. He got the salt and pepper shakers out too, thinking that might help with the taste.
Dad was doing something at the counter with Dean standing nearby, but their backs were too broad and too close together for Sam to see what they were doing, so he poured the milk, and then put the jug away. Then he sat in his chair and propped himself on his leg and waited while he listened to the sounds of the camp spaghetti being heated in the frying pan. Maybe he even smelled butter; his stomach certainly did, and stood up and growled.
Sam took a sip of milk and tried to be calm; he was too tired to kick up a fuss about it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so horrible, after all, it’d been years since he’d eaten a stewed tomato. Maybe they were like olives and got better with time.
He also smelled garlic, which was strange, since camp spaghetti didn’t really have garlic that you could smell or taste, though it was listed as one of the ingredients on the label. Sam had checked. Though why he was thinking about this now was beyond him; his head felt dizzy, so he rested his cheek on his propped up hand and listened to Dean use the toaster, which was also strange.
Finally, Dean brought over the pile of buttered toast, and Dad brought over the bowl of camp spaghetti. Only instead of being long strings of spaghetti with huge chunks of stewed tomatoes in it, everything was cut up into little pieces, and Dad had even chopped up garlic and fried it in butter and tossed that in. Yes, there were still stewed tomatoes everywhere, but they were little little, only pieces of red at that point.
Sam looked up at Dad, he knew his confusion was showing in his face.
“Eat,” said Dad. “Just shut up and eat, okay?”
Sam nodded. His throat felt a little thick, and he didn’t quite know what to say. He was going to have to eat the stewed tomatoes, but still, even though he was giving in, so was Dad.
Dean snorted and took two pieces of toast and began to make a sandwich out of the spaghetti. Now the toast made sense to Sam and he did what Dean was doing, trying not to grimace as he saw how many little pieces of red were on his slice of bread. Instead, he covered up the pile of chopped spaghetti with another slice of bread and squished it down. Dean reached over and cut the sandwich in two for him, and then cut his own. Dad just picked up his whole sandwich and bit into it with white teeth.
Sam picked up one half of his sandwich and bit into it like Dean was doing. He chewed, tasting the spaghetti, and the garlic, but hardly any of the tomatoes. There was only a faraway tang of it, and he was able to chew and swallow like it was anything else.
He found that Dad and Dean were looking at him expectantly.
“It’s the texture,” he said, around another mouthful.
Dean snorted around his sandwich as he took another bite, while Dad only frowned and looked away from Sam, at something else, the wall maybe. Still the sandwich was very good, as was the cold glass of milk that Sam finished off in record time. He wished there was enough spaghetti for two sandwiches, but between what he’d spilled and Dad spilled, there was only enough for one each.
Dad pushed his plate back and looked at the empty bowl, like he was still hungry too. Then he looked at Sam and Dean.
“You boys go to bed, I’ll get the dishes.”
“But it’s only just after nine,” said Sam before he could think.
Dad took at little breath, and flicked his dark eyes at Sam. His expression was level and calm, but it looked forced. “I said go to bed, Sam.”
He felt Dean tugging on his sleeve, so Sam got up and left the dishes on the table, and walked away, which felt weird, because Dad never did it like this. But Dean kept walking and so Sam followed him into the bathroom where they washed their faces.
Dean looked down at Sam. “You need some more cream for those legs? I think there’s some in the cupboard here.”
He was reaching for the medicine cabinet, and taking out the tube, but Sam shook his head, and took the tube from Dean. His legs felt stuff and his backside hurt, but then it was supposed to. Besides, he didn’t want Dean putting cream on his bare behind, that would just be too weird. Most of him still felt numb and tired anyway.
“I can do it myself, I’m fine.”
Dean frowned at him and brushed his teeth, and didn’t say anything more to Sam.
When Dean left, Sam shut the bathroom door and took down his shorts and underwear to put the cream on as best he could. But he couldn’t see all of the back of him and probably got as much on unwelted skin as on the skin that really needed it. When he pulled up his clothes, he felt the cream smearing around, so maybe he should have let Dean help him. Anyway, it was too late now because now he smelled like the first aid cream, all medicine-y, and Dean was sure to say something nasty about that.
Then Sam brushed his teeth and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked like two blank spots; he looked like a boy he didn’t even know and he didn’t feel right, and there was still that tightness in his chest and stomach, and maybe he’d eaten too much spaghetti, too fast, he didn’t know. But he felt like someone had punched him, right in the stomach, even though no one had. He finished up as fast as he could and didn’t look at himself in the mirror any more.
By the time Sam was out of the bathroom, Dean was already in bed with both fans going, and the door propped open. Sam stepped over the fan and flicked off the overhead light and took off his shorts and shirt crawled into bed next to Dean, wincing each time he moved his legs. But the worst part was the tight feeling that had moved up to his throat. He tried swallowing but it didn’t go away.
As he lay on his side, in the darkness, below the sound of the fans, Sam could hear Dean settling in, his breathing slow.
“Hey Dean?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“Are you awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have some honey? On a spoon, like you did that one time?”
Beside him in the bed, he felt Dean freeze. Then he drew his breath in fast, and said with a hiss, “You think you deserve honey after what you did today? And you still haven’t said sorry to Dad, you little shit, so no, you can’t have any honey.”
Sam flinched like he’d been slapped hard in the face.
Dean rolled over with his back to Sam, huffing as he settled the sheet under his arm. Sam could poke him to make him roll back over, but he didn’t dare.
“I did try,” he said to Dean’s back. “You saw. Dad waved me away, said he’d had enough of me.”
“What he said was,” said Dean, and it sounded like he was talking through grit teeth, “was that he’d had enough. Of the day. Of you and me almost getting killed in the river. Of us almost drowning.”
“But Dean,” Sam said in a voice that felt very small, “we didn’t really almost drown, did we?” A pounding had started up in his chest, all of a sudden, and his lungs were aching in a way that made him feel like he was in the river all over again with the water coming into his mouth and the foam all around and he couldn’t get away.
Suddenly Dean sat up and loomed over Sam, his eyes bright flickers in the near darkness.
“You’re like one of those idiot smart kids or something, Sam,” said Dean, biting off each word, teeth snapping. “You know all about Indians, you can hit a bulls eye with a cross bow easier than most people can snap their fingers, you can find your way out of any forest with your eyes closed, but you’re still so stupid you just don’t get it, do you.”
Sam shook his head, his mouth open for air, trying not to make any noise that Dean might remark on and make fun of. He pulled the sheet close up under his chin and couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t move.
“When you were going in,” said Dean, snarling, “and I tried to stop you, that river was rising. I don’t know, maybe it had rained up the valley or something, but that water was fast, and you went in even though Dad said not to-”
“I just wanted to go wading,” said Sam, choking on his own breath, because he couldn’t understand why Dean was still so mad. “Like when we went fishing, I just wanted another good day, like that.”
“What you wanted,” said Dean, “is what you always want, which is to throw Dad’s orders right back in his face, just because you want to, because you don’t think you have to obey orders or something, I don’t know-”
Dean stopped and rubbed his forehead hard with the palm of his hand, pushing up his hair into weird spikes. Then he started talking really fast. “You fight him on everything, and maybe that’s just the way you are, but you fight him even when he’s trying to keep us safe, even when he says to not go in the river above the falls, because the water is just too fast there-and today, when it was rising, you couldn’t even see it, or you didn’t want to, because all you could think about was getting back at Dad.”
Dean stopped again, and this time he was panting hard. He’d not raised his voice at all, but he’d said more in one breath than Sam could ever remember him saying. And it was hard things, stuff Sam didn’t really want to hear, like the time Dad had convinced him to keep training, because if he didn’t, then maybe he wouldn’t be ready to rescue Dean from a tight spot. And maybe today, he’d only not rescued Dean, he’d dragged him into danger, made him come into the river, when it had been rising-and all of a sudden, Sam couldn’t breathe at all.
Even though it made the back of his legs sting as if his skin was ripping open, he sat up with his hands on his chest, the sheet falling away, his mouth open, looking at Dean, finally getting it.
“I almost got us killed,” he said, feeling like he was choking. He could hear the river rising in his ears.
But Dean just shoved Sam in the chest till he fell back on the bed, right on his welts, his head landing with a thwump on the pillow.
“Don’t start your drama with me, princess. I was there, and you were just being an airheaded girl when you went in, la la, follow me Dean. You knew exactly what you were doing and not once,” here Dean paused to poke Sam in the stomach with his sharp finger, “not once did you listen to me, just like you never listen to Dad, and you’re such a little bitch that you don’t realize that it’s eating him up that you almost died today. That I almost died today, but he rescued you first, and you don’t even remember.”
Dean slammed back down on the mattress again so hard it was a lucky thing that Dad didn’t hear him and come in and yell at them both for messing around when they should be sleeping. His back was to Sam again, and now Sam’s stomach hurt even more and not just because Dean poked it.
But he did remember. He remembered Dad walking right past Dean to get to Sam first, leaving Dean in the river as he rescued Sam. Maybe that had been because Sam had been further out in the river, in more danger, because he was the youngest, he didn’t know. His breath started tripping up and down his throat like it was trying to find the way out but couldn’t. And his stomach was tangled in achy knots, like ropes that were alive, and it was suddenly very hard to lay still.
“Dean,” he whispered in the dark, “I’m sorry, honest, I didn’t know-“
But Dean punched his pillow, interrupting Sam. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to punch you in your fucking freak face, you got me? I mean it.”
Dean did mean it, Sam could tell because Dean didn’t usually cuss at him like that, didn’t make threats he didn’t plan on following up on, and Dean was right, Sam had almost gotten them killed today, and at dinner, he’d made the fuss about the tomatoes like the incident at the river never even happened, and now the expression, the flat, emotionless expression on Dad’s face made sense. Or at least a little more than it usually did.
And just as he was making up his mind whether to go out and apologize to Dad, the door opened away from the fan, and although Dad didn’t turn on the light, he was a presence in the doorway.
“What’s going on in here? Dean?”
With a small yelp, Sam slid off the bed, and scuttled to curl against the wall under the headboard. This was stupid, it wasn’t like they couldn’t find him, but just for a second, he needed it dark. And even if it was a little dusty under the bed, it was dark, and the floorboards were cool. More importantly, Dean wasn’t on the bed bedside him, hating him and making threats about punching him in the face. And anyway, he was shaking all over, his teeth clacked together, and the backs of his bent legs hurt like they were on fire. He put his hands over his ears, but all he could hear was the roar of the river and Dean screaming Sam! Sam! Sam!
Dad clicked the light on, and Sam could see Dad’s bare feet between the legs of the bed and the end of the sheet that trailed off on Sam’s side.
Above him the bed squeaked.
“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asked.
“He went under the bed,” said Dad.
Sam heard Dean roll back over with a heavy sigh. “He’s just being a stupid princess, all this drama, and he can’t even-”
“That’s enough Dean. Sam, come on out of there.”
Sam stuck out his chin and shook his head, even though he knew that Dad couldn’t see him.
Dad walked around to Sam’s side of the bed and knelt down so he could see Sam. His eyes were dark, and his face was very still. Sam looked back at him, his mouth open, trying to get enough air.
“Sam, what are you doing?”
Sam shook his head again, and in his ears the river still roared, and Dean was screaming Sam! Sam! Sam!
“Is this about today?” asked Dad. “Is this about the river?”
Sam took a hard, deep breath, dropping his hands to hold himself steady, and the words came tumbling out. “I almost got us killed today, all of us, one at a time. Going in the river, I just wanted to go in the river, and go wading again, but I got stuck and Dean came in and then he got stuck and then you came in and then you slipped, and you rescued me first, and we almost died and now Dean hates me, and I c-can’t breathe, and-”
Sam curved forward into a little ball, burying his head in his arms, and tried to keep breathing, even though he felt like he was going to run out of oxygen with every other breath. Maybe Dean was right and he was a drama princess, but it was all suddenly just too much. If Dean had gotten him some honey, then he would have known that somebody liked him, at least a little bit, only now, nobody liked him and he was under the bed, feeling like he was trapped in a corner with no way out, and he never wanted Dad to look at him that way again, ever, ever-
Something was moving, and Sam lifted his head. It was Dad and he was reaching for Sam. His hand was only inches away and Sam scooted back.
“You need to come out of there, Sam; don’t make me have to shove this bed out of the way.”
It was only going to end badly if Sam kept it up, and Dad didn’t understand, like he never did. He probably thought Sam was just making a fuss because he could, and he certainly wouldn’t want to hear how hard it was for Sam to not start crying right this minute.
“Sam.”
“No whipping,” Sam said, clearing his throat to get it out. Dad was going to be able to grab him in a second, and he would, if he really wanted to.
“No,” said Dad, like he agreed. “At least not today.”
Sam stuck out his chin and didn’t move. “I almost killed Dean today, and everyone h-hates me.”
“No one died today, and Dean doesn’t hate you, Sam, and I don’t hate you.” Dad stretched out his hand a little more. “But maybe you don’t like yourself right now, maybe that’s what’s got you all worked up.”
"I can’t breathe, Dad.”
“That’s enough, Sam,” said Dad. “C’mon.”
Sam shifted his body, just a little, but it was enough so that Dad could grab him and drag him hard across the wood and out from under the bed. He pulled Sam to his feet, and held on to his shoulders while Sam blinked in the brightness of the light.
“Take a deep breath for me, okay?” said Dad.
Sam tried.
“Okay?” asked Dad.
“My chest feels all tight, and my stomach is all running around and-”
“You’re worked up from today, and I didn’t think-” Dad started and then he stopped, a big sigh working its way up from his chest, making Sam feel bad.
Everyone was tired and he, Sam, was just making it worse, and all because he wanted some stupid honey on a stupid spoon. He wasn’t going to ask for it, ever again, no, he was just going to breathe in and out, slowly, so Dad would know he was okay, and would turn out the light, so everyone could get some sleep. And in the morning, after chores, they had running, and Sam would be the first one up, and he would be ready, he would go running, he would-
“Sam,” Dad shook him. “Sam, take a breath, take your hands from your face and look at me.”
Sam let his hands drop, he didn’t even realize what he’d been doing. Dad was standing close, with a hand on Sam’s shoulders, heavy and warm.
He felt very small as he looked up at Dad, and then, without thinking, Sam leaned a little sideways so he could bury his face in the crook of Dad’s arm, and just not think of anything, for just a minute.
But Dad pushed him away, though Dad’s bandaged head came up and cupped the back of his head, just like he’d done in the river, patting him once or twice. Sam wasn’t going to cry, but he gave a shuddery little breath, just the same as he tried to quell his beating heart and ignore the memory of Dean shouting his name.
“He’s-” started Dean.
“Not now, Dean,” said Dad.
Dad took his hands away from Sam’s head and made Sam look up at him. His eyes were stern and the expression Sam saw there made his stomach start squirreling around.
“When I say not to do something because it’s dangerous, I’m not just saying it to hear myself talk. You understand?”
Sam nodded. His eyes were hot and his chest was still tight, but it was getting better, because Dad was looking at him like he was a dumb kid, and not like someone who’d tried to kill them all-
Dad snapped his fingers at Sam. “That’s enough Sam. What’s done is done, and I want you to go to bed and let Dean sleep. In the morning, we’ll go get you new sneakers, and I need new boots.”
“Dean too,” said Sam. Even if Dean was still pissed at him, he should get new sneakers if Sam was.
“Fine. Now everyone go to bed. If I hear another word-”
“You won’t,” said Dean.
“I’ve heard that before,” said Dad. Then he flicked off the light and put the door back against the fan.
Dad was not happy with Sam and probably not with Dean either, but mostly not with Sam, but then, he always wasn’t. Sam stood there for a minute, in the darkness, while his eyes adjusted. He felt stiff all over, and the pull of exhaustion was so hard, the thought he might fall asleep standing up.
Even so, his mind still wanted to go on, to run through the memory of the day, of the water, and the foam, and Dad striding through the water like it was air, pulling Sam off the rock and into his arms, saving him. And leaving Dean there to die.
Sam shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it any more.
“Get into bed, idiot,” said Dean, “or sleep under it, I really don’t care.”
“I’m tired, Dean,” said Sam as he crawled into bed, and collapsed on his front, with his face turned towards Dean.
He felt the cotton sheet being laid over him, falling lightly, like dandelion seeds.
“Don’t be such a girl,” said Dean, but his voice was soft like he wanted Sam to really listen to him. “Try rescuing two stupid kids from a fast, deep river, and then you’ll know tired.”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Sam, also keeping his voice low. “I tried to say I’m sorry to Dad; you saw me.”
Dean sighed, and there was a rustle of sheets as he pulled them up to his neck. “I know. Try again tomorrow or something. He’ll listen, I know he will. When he’s not so freaked out.”
“Can I have some honey?”
“No.”
But Dean’s no didn’t hurt as much as it had before, besides which, Dean wasn’t threatening to punch him now. And had made only a little snotty comment about Sam hiding under the bed to get away from Dad.
Sam sighed, his brain filling up with the memory of being rescued first, waiting on the bank for Dad to go after Dean. Those had been long seconds, while he waited, and the memory of the foam and the sharp rock and the water all around made his heart beat faster, made him feel like he was dying all over again. So he scooted closer to Dean, and paused, then scooted a little closer, till he could bend his neck and rest his forehead on Dean’s back.
He did this and waited for Dean to protest, and then, when Dean didn’t (though he was surely still awake), Sam moved even closer till he could tuck his hands beneath Dean’s ribs and rest his head on them. This close to Dean’s warmth, and familiar, comforting smell, Sam breathed in and tried to forget about the river. But he was shaking and he couldn’t stop.
Dean rolled over so fast Sam almost didn’t have time to get out of the way. And then Dean was there, clasping his face.
“Please, please, please, Sammy,” he whispered, close. “Please stop crying. Dad’ll come in again, if he hears you.”
“I’m not c-crying,” said Sam. Now he knew that Dean could really feel him shaking and he would be mad that Sam couldn’t stop. “I’m not.”
Dean moved his finger beneath Sam’s right eye, as if to check whether Sam was lying, and Sam could almost hear his brother frowning.
“Then what’s the matter? Why’re you shaking?”
Sam ducked his head, and pushed it into the pillow so that Dean’s hand would be trapped beneath Sam’s cheek and he wouldn’t be able to pull it away. With Dean this close, he felt better, safer. And Dean was being nice to him; even if it only lasted a minute or two, it was as good as a spoonful of honey. Maybe even better.
“I saw-well, Dad rescued me first, and left you out there. What if the river had come up and taken you away?”
“Dad wouldn’t let it,” said Dean. “You know that.”
“But what if it did? What if it took you away and I never saw you again?” Sam was shaking harder now, and Dean’s hand slipped away, like he was afraid it would. But instead of pulling away, Dean clasped both of Sam’s hands in his. His hands were warm and solid, and Dean leaned in very close.
“It never will,” said Dean. “It didn’t today, and it won’t ever. I’m right here. I’ll always be around, Sammy, always. I promise. Okay?”
That would make it better because Dean always kept his promises. Sam tried to stop shaking, taking several deep breaths. He looked up at Dean, and nodded. “I’ll try,” he said.
“Nope,” said Dean. “Not good enough. You have to believe me. All or nothing, you got that?”
Dean sounded so serious and fierce that Sam had to nod. He trusted Dean when he talked like that. And Dean wasn’t dead, after all. He was right here, right next to Sam.
“But I can’t stop thinking about it, about you-what if you-”
Dean let go of his hands, and pulled away. Sam could hear the sheets rustle under his hands. “If you don’t stop, you know what I’m gonna do, Sammy?” asked Dean.
“What?” asked Sam, startled by the suddenness of Dean’s question.
“I’m going to fart really hard and then pull these sheets really fast right over your head. Do you want that?”
Sam was so distracted from his memory of the river by this thought that he yelped and yanked away from Dean. “No!”
“Shhhh!” said Dean, fierce again, but underneath that, not. “You really want to get us in trouble?”
Sam shook his head and watched to see if Dean was really going to do it. But then Dean just snorted, and lay back down, and patted the mattress right next to him, to get Sam to do the same. The message was clear. Sam could lay down right next to Dean, where he wanted to be, and try and sleep and trust that Dean wouldn’t fart on him, or he could keep messing around and Dean surely would. The choice was entirely Sam’s.
“Okay,” said Sam. “I really am sorry.”
“And I think I had lots of garlic at supper, so shut up, before I do it.”
There was kindness in Dean’s voice, which made Sam feel better and a little less vacant and numb. Made him feel like he was in more familiar territory and less alone. He concentrated on moving his pillow closer to Dean’s, and on not shaking. Dean’s farts were powerful weapons, so he didn’t use them very often, thank goodness. So he would try, for Dean.
When Sam’s head hit the pillow, Dean pulled the sheet up over Sam, but gently like he had before.
“Sleep now, Sammy,” said Dean, low. “It’ll be better in the morning, I promise.”
Sam nodded, and turned on his side to face Dean, pushing in close, tucking his hands under the pillow beneath his head. And thought about new sneakers, and long fields of green grass and white lines, and spoonfuls of honey. And Dean. Who wasn’t dead, and who was maybe even being a little bit nice to him.
The End
Master Fic Post
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://lovesrain44.dreamwidth.org/4294.html.